Of  course you want to stay 
all cozy in the green hills of the shire

but sometimes you must lace up
your hiking boots & and go back 

to the stinking swamps of Mordor.
There’s something in your pocket,

some wee but weighty thing
unspeakably shining in the dark, 

that you can unpack & drop off
only in the place it was made.

Even then you can barely 
let go of it, & in throwing it away

you all but throw yourself away,
so much a part of you it’s become,

& even then you’ll feel it there,
in your pocket still.